


when gone astray

by Believerindaydreams (deepandlovelydark), sybilius



Series: count to ten and run for cover [9]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Character Study, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Shopping, F/F, Former Assassin/Hitman, Found Family, Home for Christmas, Ice Skating, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Background Catholicism, Multi, One (1) violent story retold, Short non-explicit smut, This is indeed fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/Believerindaydreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: 1976. After long roads, dusty and snow-covered alike, the trio are home for good, and for the holiday.Between a broken space heater, a brother in jail, and some stories that ought to stay untold, making it a happy one is more of a challenge than they expect.
Relationships: Angel Eyes/"Blondie" | The Man with No Name/Tuco Ramirez, Pablo Ramirez & Wallace, Susan Laine (OC)/Penny (OC)
Series: count to ten and run for cover [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289720
Comments: 13
Kudos: 5
Collections: Sybilius' Christmas Fic Compilation





	1. tea or hot chocolate (Angel Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!!!
> 
> Of course in the spirit of the season -- we had to do a Christmas fic <3 Or rather, Syb dragged D into being part of her Christmas fic tradition and they cheerfully obliged.
> 
> For those of you caught up with _bleeding across state lines_ on tumblr, this takes place two years after its ending. Much healing happens in the middle; Tuco makes it to Mexico and ends up in jail, there is a daring rescue, and the trio end up on a road-trip all the way across the country back home.
> 
> It's a hell of a story :) hopefully we'll get to posting all of it sometime (once all of it is done being written!). But for now, we hope you love this Christmas fic. It's the ending we want for them, in any case, with some other fluff additions that can be found on tumblr.
> 
> As always, comments, thoughts, super welcome! And we hope you have a cheery holiday season!
> 
> <3 <3
> 
> Syb & D

Seven dozen sugar cookies. 

All in varieties, naturally, each selected for challenge, instruction, and -- a particular holiday evocation. 

I brush the flour off my bare hands, stacking the bowls for washing for the fifth time this morning. I glance at my work. There are all kinds of shapes, secular, reverent, with the tree shapes falling somewhere in between. They stretch out over the dining table like so many small soldiers. 

I am profoundly, utterly, not built for this. Still.  _ Qui non proficit, deficit.  _ After an entire career of blood split, and self reshaped to hide anything of suspicion from far more dangerous men, one would think the prospect of finding some kind of engagement in the holidays would be child’s play. 

I test the thick icing, pinching my lips together and adding more sugar. 

With luck, enough trying will conceal my inaptitude.

The priory turned to winter in late November, the icy white coating the grounds, the old ruins to the west. As it was, as soon as it turned to December Blondie began talking about looking for a tree. 

A lost saw and an unexpected day's blizzard had kept them from going out until now. I narrow my eyes at a nearby pine that casts it's shadow over the gatehouse. My memories of freshly chopped Christmas trees at my father's home are hazy. But there's something to look forward to, the sharp odor of sap. 

And the whistle of the kettle, just in time for approaching footsteps. 

"...so it looks like the best tree to take down is on the west side-- oh," Blondie stops short from entering the gatehouse, staring at the landscape of baked goods my efforts have wrought, "Jeez Angel, how many cookies you think a man can eat?"

"All of them," my  _ pareja,  _ impish in his greed as ever, immediately selects an angel and bites the head clean off.

I blink for a moment, realizing in another life, another company, I would have had to have taken the gesture as a threat. How ridiculous, in retrospect, and yet...

"Mm, these are fantastic, Angel," Tuco stomps off his boots, taking a few more. I give Blondie a pointed look. There was forethought, or some, in this excess of effort.

"The later attempts were the better ones, as far as I can tell.The earlier ones can be iced for use on the tree?” I raise an eyebrow to Blondie, so far the purveyor of all such Christmas activities.

“Oh yeah, that is a good idea,” he admits, glancing at the cookies with tentative longing 

I realize belatedly that I haven’t actually sampled these.  _ A lo hecho, pecho _ . I pick up a star, nibbling at the corner. The butter is rich and altogether delicious. So that's one tradition as expected, at least. 

"I've got the kettle on-- tea or hot chocolate?" 

"Not for me," Tuco pulls up his scarf, his mustache turning up, "I've gotta go hustle Wallace into letting Blondie cut down that tree--

“You’re sure it’s not a good idea for me to come?" Blondie adds.

“...trust me, it'll work better if it’s just me asking. ‘Sides, I wanna see if Wallace has any idea what Pablo will want for Christmas. Why don’t you help Angel ice these hundred cookies?”

“Eighty-four, actually. Well, eighty-one, now--”

“Better make that seventy-eight,” Tuco takes a handful more, though I greatly suspect those are for Wallace, from the way he winks as if claiming them. 

Now if there’s anything that’s easy as breathing to summon a smile for, it’s the two of them, busy to whatever task they’ve set to. Blondie shrugs off his jacket and takes a seat at the table, just as the door closes against the winter chill.

“To be honest, we usually had plastic balls. Popcorn, yeah, I’ve got my hand in at threading that. But no cookies to eat...would have been waste, I guess…”

“Well, we’ll both be a new hand at this," I offer him a plate, seeing as he's unwilling as yet to simply take a cookie to try, as well as a steaming mug of that rosehip tea he favors. 

“Yeah, I guess you would be,” Blondie has a funny sort of wry smile on his face as I join him. As if he knows me to be play-acting at this. 

I make a careful outline of a star with a toothpick. On some days I find that endearing, that he can see through me so easily. On others, patronizing and altogether baffling. To keep to the peace I’m looking for, today, I ought to choose the former. 

"Tuco and I, we did this once," Blondie says to the holly leaf he's tracing, "funny thing, we thought we were doing a hustle. It was a church in the north part of Florida, and we didn't go much further than that. Not a bad place to go for winter, but course, not freezing doesn't mean you're not hungry. Or that you want to sleep in your car all the time. Gets tiring." 

"Of course," now there, keeping yourself alive while others celebrate the illusion of a time of plenty, that's its own tragedy.

"Seeing as there wasn't much work where we were, we went into a church for a service. Mostly to see if we could sneak into the basement, a lot of them have old couches you can crash on for a night if you’re curious.”

“Oh? You slept together in a church?”

“Angel!” Blondie has the gall to look scandalized -- I’m not sure whether to laugh or offer ironic apologies. That is, until he starts to grin. 

I shake my head, “You’re incorrigible, the both of you. As bad as he is.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. These  _ are _ great, by the way,” he takes one of the darker ones I’ve allocated for the tree, “Mm, even the more well-done batches are still pretty nice. You sure you want to let them get dried out?”

“You tell me, have you decided between you and Tuco you can eat them all now?” I say dryly, but with a smile.

“Oh, hah, hah. Maybe. But they will look pretty on the tree, yeah.” 

“I can always make more. But as you were saying, regarding the church basement?”

“Oh well. We didn’t get caught fucking, if that’s what you were asking. Even with how much that old velour orange thing creaked. But we did get caught out sleeping there, next morning, and then got roped into decorating cookies by a group of sisters visiting from a nearby convent. Gingerbread, the smell made me wince for weeks. We were there for hours, and heard a lecture like you wouldn’t believe. But they fed us a passable tomato soup later, so. Tuco decided it was fine. And looking back, yeah. It was.”

Blondie sips his tea, something of a downcast look in his eyes. I nod once, focusing on the task at hand, “ _ Aries cornibus Iasciviens.  _ Seems like you got what you needed at the time.”

"...you missing Christmas in New Mexico?" 

I set down the piping bag to stare at him, "What on Earth gave you that idea?" 

"Thought maybe you weren't used to the weather-- we didn't get much of it last year before we left for Mexico." 

"Last year, yes,” I resume my efforts at tracing out a window, “I’m sure planning a prison break was far more stressful work. This year will be different.”   


“Yeah. It will.” 

Confessing my doubts is on the tip of my tongue, in spite of the ring of conviction in my voice at  _ different _ . Implicit promises. Implicit promises that I have no prior on my ability to make good on, this isn’t a border crossing coordinated on a shoestring of resources, nor is it even the ability to provide a home. Which, despite the recklessness of abandoning the only life I ever knew to do as such; I never questioned my ability to do so. 

But on the other hand -- that was before countless months of feeling trapped, earning that ease and comfort back through miles and miles of the smell of steaming asphalt. There’s more at stake here, too much for me to open up to old stories. I set down a facsimile of a house, catching Blondie’s eye before picking up another star. Then again, if there was something he withheld...

“Perhaps-- there’s nothing that I miss, but before --”

“Hey! Hey hey!” Tuco, stamping his boots again, and the gust of cold air from the open door. He shrugs off his coat, a big grin on his face. 

“That was quick, can we have the tree?” Blondie is on his feet in an instant, and when Tuco nods, Blondie’s smile makes me almost reassured we were interrupted. For the moment, at least, we’ll have another time. I stand up, realizing belatedly the footsteps behind Tuco. 

“I had to sweeten the deal, seeing as it’s Christmas and Wallace’s space heater broke. Tis the season, right? We can have him here until he gets that fixed up?”

They’re both looking to me, I realize when Blondie doesn’t respond. I nod once. 

“Of course. In the spirit of the season,” It hardly matters, after all, if my thoughts about it aren’t known until after we have an ideal celebration. I add, to reassure, and if nothing else to see the smile it makes fly across Tuco’s face. 

“So long as he’s willing and able to dispatch all these cookies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
>  _Qui non proficit, deficit_ \- He who does not go forward, loses ground. Latin.
> 
>  _A lo hecho, pecho_ \- To make one's bed and lie in it. Spanish. 
> 
> _Aries cornibus Iasciviens_ Better fed than taught, or "great boldness is not without some absurdity". Latin.


	2. holly on the bookcases (Tuco)

Funny thing, the way old habits come back. 

Only a single night Wallace has been here, his battered brown suitcase tucked discreetly by the door, and yet having someone else in the gatehouse changes the whole feel of the place. Makes it suddenly smaller again, like the half-forgotten (not forgotten) home back in Brooklyn- the sensation of too much crowding, people tripping over each other’s boots and sticking elbows out of windows, to have room to laugh. 

Any other season, maybe he’d grumble and withdraw the charity; but this time of year, likes and fondness hang suspended in a wash of good will. There really isn’t anything he’s afraid of this year, not Blondie’s tired face or his own travel weariness or worse than either, the thought that this might be the year even he can’t keep a front up anymore- none of that. Everything he needs is right here. 

Which isn’t to say there isn’t anything he wants, naturally…

“So there goes Blondie, skating away like a madman, and I’m just watching him and keeping up enough to not fall over, you know how it is.” 

“I can’t say as I have,” Wallace says, easing towards politeness if not exactly informality. He frowns at the eggs he’s whisking, puts a little more vigour into the attempt. “My attempts to learn skating have never availed me much besides practice at long-suffering.” 

Tuco imagines the man crashing upon the ice in full monastic gear, and then has to stop before he laughs. “Well, let me tell you, he’s much better than I am. But just when I’m not looking- boom! in he sweeps, grabbing me under the arms and spinning me off who knows where, the ice screamed as we slide across it.” 

“Sounds rather dangerous to me.” 

“Of course it was! We got our scarves tangled together, he had a fist up my jacket and I had his hat in my mouth, you never saw anything so ridiculous. And the pageant photographer, he thought the same thing. Next day, I go out to get a little coffee, wake him up a bit- and there we both are in the newspaper. Front page!”

“....rather a chicken-dinner paper, surely.” 

“Sure it was,” Tuco agrees, dumping hard grated cheddar into a mixing bowl. “I sent my brother a copy, it must be around somewhere….heyyyy! Blondie! Blondie, you remember that time in Cincinnati?”

“Like I’d forget,” Blondie says, appearing with that utter sense of self-possession. Where Wallace is still in pajamas and he’s enjoying the sheer indulgence of a t-shirt during snowfall, his partner’s already dressed and dignified. Bless. “We were having such a rough time of it that year, I cut a deal with the photographer...he admitted we’d earned it, too.” 

“...ah, you bastard,” Tuco says affectionately. “Could have told me it was a hustle, you know.” 

“Hardly deserved the name. It was just a matter of luck that he agreed to do it at all, really...but it did work out. Bought your Christmas present with the proceeds- morning, Angel.” 

“ _ Buongiorno _ ,” which isn’t Latin at all but Italian; and something runs down his spine that feels like somebody else’s deja vu, mislaid; the occasions on which Angel Eyes slips into his not-quite-mother tongue are infrequent, usually significant, and above all, meltingly delicious. 

It’s a treat, after all, to see the flicker in those darkly gazing eyes, the firmly unmoved jaw (because he was an assassin, his tells are subtle; because he didn’t need them just to live, they are noticeable). A touch more would ruin the effect, leave his gently tantalised desire collapsing into genuine worry, but short of private lovemaking, there’s little that suits the man so well as the whiff of uncertainty. Making Angel so sharp, characteristically eager. 

(Maybe it’s Wallace’s robes that have done it, to evoke a childhood barely in his capacity to envision- harsh, surely, but stirringly romantic. The codes, the accepted sacrifices-

“How much cheese do you need?” Wallace asks; and Tuco comes to with his hands covered in dappled scraps. 

“Hello,” Tuco says, and it’s nothing at all he was meaning to make potent, not with a Holy Brother standing at his elbow, but habit’s habit and he knows much too well how this scene would end with just the three of them, hands licked clean by one partner as the other, laughing, stands support behind him like a firm rock-

( _ Calm down, Ramirez, calm down. How many times did this happen with Blondie, and you never gave yourself away then.) _

“Hello,” he says, again. 

Angel leans back against the counter, attention split between Wallace and the door. “I trust you slept well?”

“Much better than I might have done,” Wallace says, rather heartily; and all feelings shifted like wind, because as sincere as Angel’s uncertainty might be that’s spiritual woe, which has nothing on the pleading unhappiness of a night spent freezing in the monastery’s cold chambers. That’s something he remembers, much too vividly to romanticise. “I was admiring the bookshelves earlier- there’s some very fine volumes there. An eclectic collection.”

“The  _ Decameron  _ is mine,” Blondie says; and Tuco stifles a giggle because it is but only because Angel gave it to him as a present, a gloriously illustrated copy with pictures to make any self-respecting divine blush. “Also the 1972 motorcycle pricing guide.” 

“I’d rather guessed that,” Wallace says; and for a moment they might as well all be teenagers again, a touch sardonic and a touch sincere at one and the same time. 

It’s a different kind of warmth than the earlier one. Feels too much like they’re leaving Angel out. 

Which is maybe what triggers the unpleasantness, over breakfast- the omelettes come out splendidly and so does the crisp, butter-streaked toast (“how is it both at once?” he asks Blondie, and gets one of Blondie’s shrugged non-answers in response) but Wallace passes on the venison sausage because it’s Friday. Because of course it is. 

“It’s excellent sausage,” Angel says, holding up the serving platter apparently for the express purpose of stabbing a knife into the pile. “Made with nutmeg and cinnamon.” 

“I’m sure it’ll make very nice sausage sandwiches tomorrow,” Wallace says, placid enough as he sprinkles more pepper onto his eggs. “Many thanks for your hospitality, after all, but in the spirit of the season...I’m sure you understand, the way that one is drawn closer to holiness this time of year? When the darkness and the cold and the winter all come together to offer us their shared message, that nothing of merit lasts except love of God and fellow man?”

“That was very well put,” Blondie comments. He’s grinning away between bites of impromptu sandwich, and his hair shines from where he’s absently slicked it back with butter. Always has thrived on a bit of tension. 

“...I should say not,” Angel puts in, setting the meat down. “Call it perverse if you care to- but perhaps a prevailing mood of trite sentimentality must provoke the opposite reaction more often than not, if only because of a natural human repulsion to sheer hypocrisy.” 

“This from a man who hung holly off his bookcases,” Wallace says. Utterly unperturbed.

“Actually, I did that,” Tuco puts in. 

“He did bake the Christmas cookies though,” Blondie adds, out of what Tuco can only presume is pure goddamn mischief. The man is a  _ hustler  _ for crying out loud, he should know when a situation is tensing up, leading to something too big to tamp down- 

“Habits die hard,” Angel says, slowly removing the knife. It’s dripping a little, what must be fat from the skillet but it looks worse in this clouded day’s dim light- “Care to guess how I’ve spent my holidays, Wallace?”

“...oh, probably being grumpy and secretly enjoying yourself. Like most Scrooges.”

There’s a stubbornly persistent innocence about Wallace, to be sure; Pablo’s always said as much. Wallace has said the same about Pablo, to be fair.

All the same, Tuco’s not sure he’s even been so glad to see a meal finished. 


	3. a secondhand pair of skates (Blondie)

In the end, it's a secondhand pair of skates that Blondie laces up. 

Angel would have bought him a new pair if he asked, for certain, and they'd had enough of those conversations for Blondie to know they could afford it. And a lot more. But still, all those years growing up leaving rust trails on the flooded field-- it'd feel wrong, to put a nice pair of blades like that on something that gets smoothed out every couple of weeks with a hose. 

Besides, there was something poetic about the worn look about them. He stands up. Hopefully they skate well enough. Angel is already carving clean lines into uneven ice far unsuited to his chosen pair of skates, a long knitted scarf flying behind him. He’s not doing too badly for someone used to skating on pristine indoor rinks. 

_And at least whatever is throwing him off isn’t affecting his skating_ , Blondie thinks ruefully. 

With Wallace between them, Angel seems far more inclined to quip and snipe than he normally is. _Not as if he didn’t seem on edge before that_. But the house feels smaller with another person in it, even someone friendly enough like Wallace. 

“ _S_ _anta Maria,_ this gets harder on my poor ankles every time,” Tuco bemoans theatrically. If Blondie didn’t know better, he’d say Tuco misses the hustle sometimes. _Well, having an audience. Not that particular one._

“What, you want me to pick you up for the camera again?”

“Sure, get Angel to dig one up from the attic -- say, didn’t he say you two met skating?”

“Yeah.” Blondie steps onto the ice, just as Angel completes a lap and glides over to join them. Which almost certainly means teasing, given Tuco’s mood. 

“Soo, what did you think, when you first laid eyes on him?” Tuco wobbles slightly when he gets on the ice, Blondie puts out a hand to steady him without even thinking about it. Angel smirks.

“I never _did_ ask you that, since I assumed you had more, ah, vicious intentions.”

“... I was thinking your skating could have been better, given how nice your skates are,” Blondie goes for the honest answer, just for how it makes Tuco guffaw. 

“You wound me,” Angel brushes his chest with his gloved hand theatrically, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“You wanna race to the end of the rink, I’ll show you I’m right.” 

“ _Iter per praecepta longum, per exempla, breve et efficax._ I didn’t say you were wrong,” Angel adds, and Blondie sifts through the translation for a moment to find the flattery in it. 

“Well, the second thing I thought was ‘god above, I’m tired, and this rich pretty boy is glaring at me. If I give him the eye, will he freak out and leave me alone’--”

Angel starts up skating again, very nearly coy, “He gave me, shall we say, an undressing of the eyes so unsubtle that it would have made even your brother blush.”

“Mmm, I’ve seen him give that eye,” Tuco throws Angel a conspiratorial look, Blondie grinning as he pushes faster along the ice.

“Then you’ll understand why I invited him to dinner, in spite of possible danger.”

“ _Somos como personas concienciadas,_ ” there’s a bit of a scuffle on the ice behind Blondie, which he would bet was Tuco making his best attempt to grab Angel’s ass playfully as he passes. 

Blondie pulls away, if just to feel the icy wind whip past the stubble on his cheeks. The distant pines and the grey of the priory blur as he crosses his blades along the turn. Even when the fierce bright star of Christmas day faded into the endless grey of the long winter, he always had skating. Like flying on your own two feet. 

He cuts his way through some laps, Tuco and Angel in quiet conversation that he catches in snatches, banter that he’s used to in between notes on a recipe for _posole_ . It’s the kind of talk he realized was half-missing this morning. He redoubles his speed, just to see how fast he can get up to, before stopping with a spray of ice next to Angel. His lover bends to brush off the remnants from his pants with exaggeratedly haughty indifference. Tuco laughs, and Blondie kisses Angel easily, just to show there’s no hard feelings. _So skating was a good idea._

Blondie brushes cold sweat from his brow, "Can't believe they set up the rink. I always thought Pablo did it in case Clinton came to visit. Or I guess I should say, Father John now."

"He did," Tuco adds quietly, and Blondie holds off from digging his blades back in the ice, "I set it up this year. Mostly for you and Angel. Also, sort of for Pablo." 

"That was kind of you," Angel replies quietly, almost a prompt. 

"Yeah. Guess I miss him. I know he's doing fine, and we'll give him a visit. Still, who's going to give me an earful about the holy meaning of Christmas this year, huh?"

"I am certain Wallace would if you asked him the right way," Angel says dryly, "But I understand. One of few Christmases I remember as enjoyable was with Susan. We started eating most dinners together after I insisted she share it with me. _Maledizione_ , an entire turkey. I don't know what else she would have expected. But it was the first time I'd had turkey at Christmas, all the same."

Blondie's brow furrowed in confusion, even he'd had turkey or ham (and his aunt's horrible soup to follow), but it's Tuco that chimes in, "Fish, right? That takes me back. We never did that but boy! Everyone in the complex did and you sure could smell it." 

"Near enough. Yes. Until I was eleven, that's what I had," Angel has pulled back to distant. Blondie waits for him to say something more, but is simply met with tight lipped silence. 

"Sounds pretty different than gelatin Midwest Christmas dinner. Not that I hated it, you know," Blondie _did_ like Christmas at his Aunt's. One of the few bright points there.

"It was quite lovely in it's way. I used to try to help the chefs that my father brought in. Alma laughed when I told her. I must have been always underfoot, for them."

"Did you and Alma--"

"She didn't celebrate," short, clipped.

 _That's unlike him, too_ . At least to them, Angel was quick to offer explanations, fond anecdotes about his mentor. _There's gotta be another story there._ But before Blondie can figure out what to ask, Tuco chimes in with, "Well, I guess it's a birthday, that's what an aunt of ours used to say. She got a little funny about it. Pablo didn't approve, and you know what, Blondie? I don't think your aunt would either."

That blows a chill under Blondie's scarf, alone with the wind. _Damnit, you were just talking about her, it doesn't matter..._

"No, I don't think she would," he says, his voice suddenly thick with guilt even to him. "Christmas is for family, though. You think I should call her up, see if--"

"No," his lovers respond in an utterly unhesitant chorus. Well. That settles that then. Blondie feels guilty about his relief but-- never mind that. _This year is gonna be different. If I’m never going to live up to the right kind of Christmas for my family, since leaving. At least I can do it for them._

Besides, that’s doable, right? 

“You cold?” he says to Tuco, who is making a mild show of rubbing his mittens together.

“Shall we retire to some hot chocolate?” Angel loops his scarf once over his pinked cheekbones. 

“All right, you two twisted my arm,” Tuco grins. Blondie slings an arm over his partner’s shoulder, breathing in his hair and catching Angel’s hand as they step off the rink. It’s only after Blondie is unlacing his skates that he remembers he’s lost the thread of asking Angel about Alma. Moment’s passed, for now. 

_Just have to keep my eye out for another…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Iter per praecepta longum, per exempla, breve et efficax_ \- Example is better than precept. Latin. 
> 
> _Somos como personas concienciadas_ Literally, similar consciousness, but I believe this is the colloquial equivalent to "great minds think alike". Spanish.


	4. phone call from a shopping mall (Tuco)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional context (if perhaps, you haven't read prior stories in this 'verse, or missed some details):
> 
> Susan was Angel's cook back when he used to work as a hitman; but more importantly she was an apprentice of sorts to him. 
> 
> Penny was Blondie's ex-fiancee, they got together under fraught and messy circumstances that Tuco talked them both out of. (Penny is. def lesbian). Her and Tuco stayed close friends, and she and Blondie are friendly enough. 
> 
> Penny and Susan met while Susan was taking some *serious* names unraveling the mob after Angel Eyes left. Here is a ficlet about their first meeting, if you're curious:
> 
> [Link to Penny/Susan Fic](https://thatdeepandlovelydark.tumblr.com/post/184187674745/someone-rec-me-something-about-soft-ladies-loving)
> 
> And if you're curious about Susan, you can always read the fic _noir at high noon_ which gives a pretty good idea of what she's like.

“Blondie. I can’t shop for you unless you go away.” 

“...I worry about you,” Blondie says, blowing his breath out into an elegant cloud of vapour. “There were two shootings in this mall last year.” 

The difference between Blondie, his trustworthy partner of many years, and Joseph who’s trying to communicate to Wallace that he’s genuinely worried, and Blondie-lover-of-Angel-Eyes who’s seen too much to stop being paranoid ever again….well, right now is not one of the times when his partner is at his most readable. 

Nevertheless- “Okay, okay. We’ll shop for Angel Eyes first, how’s that?”

“...fine.” 

He’s still not that fine actually, Tuco decides. Maybe it’s Angel’s “go away and don’t talk” attitude that’s the problem here. 

“Father Paul mentioned something about that,” Wallace says. “He told me to say, if you were short of funds or anything, not to worry about him unduly...on the basis that you might listen to me more than to a letter.” 

Tuco considers. “Tell my brother, it’s a terrible thing asking a man to say something he knows is going to be ignored. Pablo gets the very nicest present I can think of, as soon as I can figure out what that’s going to be...” 

“I doubt it’s gonna be in a place like this,” Blondie mutters; and for a moment he really does look like the teenaged apostate of their first meeting. Tuco chews his tongue and sets a quick pace into the first department store. 

* * *

Six hours, five bags, and two fried corn dodgers later, time for a break. Blondie’s happily ensconced in the leather goods shop comparing jackets, so now’s a good window of opportunity. 

“Long-distance, operator!”

He hums a carol as the phone call goes through; Angel’s refused to purchase one for the gatehouse, so to get in touch with Penny always needs a bit of scheduling, or luck or both. This time both. 

“Everything okay there? You’ll be able to make the trip?”

“Santa Maria, stop worrying!” her voice is lively, much more so than it has been in some years past. “We’ll make Wisconsin in more than enough time, I promised Blondie I’ll be there to help out with the dinner! And neither sleet nor snow nor that impending weather advisory is gonna stop the flight- no, no, I’m kidding. Should be a nice easy trip, I might even let Susan have a go at the controls.” 

“Huh….well, it’s lucky you’re coming anyway. Our Angel Eyes, he needs some cheering up. Maybe Susan will know better what to do- I mean, Blondie never needed much help being cheerful at Christmas.” 

Penny dissolves into her usual racuous laugh. “That’s true enough. That time with the broken coffee table and the melon-”

“Or the year we got all those oil paints! God, we haven’t been anything like as silly since Angel came along- well, not so often. There was such a funny time when Wallace confiscated- oh, you won’t believe this, weed from a priest! At least he wasn’t fool enough to try to get rid of it by burning it- ho ho, no, he gave it to me.” 

“Wait, which one is this? The tall spooky one?”

“Noooo, no, Brother Wallace! The big one who makes the wood carvings, Blondie sent you one for your birthday.” 

“Oh! It’s on my mantel. I didn’t know where else to put it- keep going, weed from a priest, you say?” 

“...well, we asked Angel if he wanted any, and he said no- you’d be surprised, he can be so puritanical for a criminal.”

“Susan’s just the same way. But I suppose it’s why they’re not dead, and I certainly appreciate that- so just you and Blondie getting high, then? I’ve heard you when you’re high, you start to speak in tongues.” 

Tuco rolls his eyes. “Just because you don’t know how to understand Spanish and English and Italian all at once- okay, so I was doing that a little bit. And then Angel Eyes, he keeps dropping these sage Latin phrases all over the place, I thought maybe I’ll tease him some and tell him how many I remembered. And I did remember some! So here I am, rolled up in the hearth rug like a ball and spouting Latin- and Blondie-”

it takes a minute before he can quit laughing long enough for the next line (Penny joining in isn’t helping). 

“And Blondie, he’s been raiding the pantry so he comes in with a bowl of soup that he’s holding like a tiny kitten. So careful not to break it. And he can hear me but I guess he can’t see me too well, because it’s a little shadowy- so he asks Angel ‘when did we get a talking welcome mat?’”

“Oh, christ- was he doing the voice?”

“The serious voice, oh yes he was! Pretty husky that day after trying to smoke a spliff and a cigarillo at the same time- he was already pretty high by then, you understand. But yeah, he’s like ‘when did we get that’ and Angel didn’t understand at all because he knows it’s me, and I’m too busy saying, um, ‘Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare.’” Which means that we all make mistakes, but if you keep making the same one you’re an idiot- and I’ve never seen Angel laugh so hard, it was hilarious. I’m missing that,” Tuco finishes. “I mean, he’s serious- but usually he’s happier than this.” 

“Don’t worry,” Penny says warmly. “I’m sure Susan can kick him into shape, if nothing else.”

“Ha. Maybe it’ll come to that, too.” 

“How are you holding up, this year?”

“Who, me? I got a whole house, Penny, and those two idiots to keep up with. What more could I want?” He twists the metal of the pay phone cord around his wrist, leaning against the glass. 

“I remember more than a few Christmases you and Joe holed up at that priory. And you used to call me to complain about your brother, affectionately.”

“...yeah. Well, as far as I can tell he’s taking the whole thing well, being holy and all.  _ Mierda _ , that reminds me. I should call from home, set up a time for a Christmas visit. Meant to do that a few days ago, only Blondie had to get our tree up and that took the whole evening. And I still have to go get Blondie's gift, now that he's finally let me off the leash!"

Penny clicks her tongue, "Well I'll let you go then, see you in a few days." 

She's like that, Penny. Doesn't press even when she knows something is off. Tuco untangles his wrist belatedly, "Sorry we couldn't put you two up, huh?" 

"Oh, Susan wouldn't hear of it."

"Angel's gatehouse not enough for her safety standards?" That surprises Tuco a little, knowing how often his lover checked the nooks and crannies of the priory. Took at least an hour out of the day.

"She didn't much fancy being quiet."

"Huh. She's always been as long as I knew her."

"...anyways, I should let you go! Good luck getting Joe's gift, just get him something with Wayne's face on it and I'm sure he'll love it. See ya!" 

She hung up a bit abruptly, something of embarrassment simmering on the dead line. Huh. And here Tuco was thinking it was going to be him to make the quick exit, when she brought up Pablo. 

He's halfway through dialing the prison's number when he lets out a short laugh, realizing what Penny meant. He chortles to himself as the other line rings. Yes, he certainly  _ does _ know that feeling. 


	5. a diversion with cheese (Blondie)

"You know, that is someone's bed right now."

Blondie eyes the nest that Tuco has made of the blankets on the couch warily.  _ Bad enough that Angel keeps vanishing and I can't figure out what's eating him.  _ His partner, he's at least had more practice on. 

"He won't be back a while," the pile of blankets grumbles. 

"Suppose." Blondie sits down on the floor beneath the couch, out of preference. There's enough space for him to sit on the end of the huge velour piece even with Tuco sprawled out atop it. He glances over to their Christmas tree, neat and traditional with the popcorn he’d strung up earlier.  _ Cookies do look nice on there. _ He was surprised that having fewer gold balls actually made them stand out better. 

"You want some of this cheese Angel bought? Dunno what kind it is. Sort of creamy."

Tuco's head pops up. He takes the offered cracker, chews it thoughtfully, "Oh yeah. Starts with a C, Camembert I think?"

"Sounds right to me," Blondie offers him another. Food tends to help whatever's ailing Tuco. He casts him a sidelong glance, "Something eating you?"

"I should tell you-- we can't go see Pablo on Christmas day. Called too late, they've already got booked up. Didn't much want to hustle the guy on the other side…so best I could get was day before," he trails off, leaning back on to the couch, "Sorry. I know you and Penny were talking about maybe going caroling on Christmas Eve." 

"Don't worry about it, I don't think Susan and Angel were up for it anyways." 

"The one thing I was supposed to do for Pablo and Wallace! Not that he'll complain, probably say something about thinking about the Holy family's persecution," Tuco waves his hand dejectedly, "but it's the principle of the thing. It's Christmas! And he's gonna be alone in a cell." 

“One of the guys we played poker with said even high-security prison does something for Christmas. Big dinner and all that. And Pablo isn’t in with the long-time cons,” Blondie’s tongue trips on all the words.  _ Angel would probably be better at this. Bet he knows more than a few people in and out of prison _ . 

“Guess you’re right, yeah. I worry about him, though! My little brother, in prison before me.  _ Mierda _ , who would have thought?” Tuco stops short, “Well. Guess he said he did.”

“Yeah, you said,” Blondie remembers that. Tuco was barely surprised, when he’d careened towards them after that year-long road trip.  _ Suppose at the time I figured he’d been through enough that not much would surprise him _ . 

He feels the careful tousle of his partner’s hand in his hair and a smile turns up his lips.  _ Least I can still help with some things _ . He looks up, the glitter of the lights on the Christmas tree reflecting back in Tuco’s dark eyes. The stairs creak upstairs.

“Christmas Eve will be good to visit him. You'll probably get a bit more privacy than on the day of too. And it’ll be easier for Wallace to get there and back for mass.”

“That’s true, that’s true. And for me, too, with um. Helping him, on Christmas day,” Tuco casts a meaningful glance at his partner, the hustler’s spark passing between them. He leans his head back with an element of the old theatricality, “ _ Santa Maria,  _ it’ll probably be more work than I think it is, too. On Christmas!”

Like any good hustle they’ve ever leaned into, there’s a half truth in it.  _ Faking it with a pile of half-burned gelatin sounds easier than making seven real fish dishes _ . Blondie thinks privately. But it’s just as well that they’ve kept up the charade, because Angel has made his appearance at the foot of the attic stair.  _ Still looking taciturn _ .

“Did I hear correctly that you’d been talked into helping Wallace with Mass?”

“Uhuh," Tuco rolls his head back to Angel with a grin, but Angel looks even more long-faced than before, if that's possible.

"Whatever for? I thought you were going to help Blondie cook?" 

"Hey, I said I didn't want help, that means from him too. Last time he got his fingers in my lutefisk--"

"All right. That's fine," Angel says it stiffly, turning back up the stairs.  _ Now that didn't go the way it should have.  _ An uneasy churn sets in Blondie's stomach. Angel doesn't tend to like surprises, for certain, but a Christmas fish dinner seems harmless enough.  _ He did say it was one of the few things he liked about Christmas. _

"Why don't you come back here Angel, Wallace is gone anyways," Blondie keeps his voice light, but inviting.

"...to what purpose? I'm not avoiding him," Angel's words are clipped enough for that to be a baldfaced lie, "I'm simply working upstairs."

"Come read some poetry with us, then."

"Oh he's going to make us read the Santa one, I bet." 

Angel presses his lips together, but steps down from the attic stair, "Perfectly acceptable. So long as you can cope with a winter ghost story following."

"90 North is a bit heavy, but I like hearing you read it."

"...no I was thinking of  _ The Cremation of Sam McGee, _ " Angel sits on his rocking chair, a small smile playing on his lips.  _ The banter is good for him _ . Blondie reaches over and squeezes his leg.

"For that matter," Angel lights his pipe thoughtfully, "90 North isn't a ghost story."

"Guess I was thinking of the guy as dead. But I think you're right, if I remember it," Blondie breathes in the tobacco smoke. He'll grab a cigarillo of his own, once Angel starts to read.

"We can revisit it in the new year."

"Right, so," Blondie cracks open the old illustrated copy he'd see out on the table, "Twas the night before Christmas…" 

"It in fact is not," Angel interjects.

"Oh, we're going to go see Pablo then, Angel, will that work for you and Susan?" Tuco adds, seeming cheerier at least about the whole thing. 

"Just fine."

"...And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." 

"Say, speaking of mice, Angel, what's this cheese you bought?"

"Brie?" Angel takes a slice off of the plate on the coffee table, "Also from the north, incidentally."

"Look, are we gonna read poetry or talk?" Blondie sets down the book with a raise of his eyebrow. 

"Oh, my apologies, continue," Angel adds seriously. And then, with a sparkle in his eye, "O One-Armed Purveyor of Christmas."

"Hah hah. I  _ am _ Purveyor of Christmas and don't you forget it."

Angel smiles, this time genuine and indulgent rather than sardonic, "Well, go on then, enlighten me."

"The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems mentioned in this piece are quite good so here are links to them:
> 
> [ 90 North](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57410/90-north)
> 
> [The Cremation of Sam McGee](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45081/the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee)


	6. illuminations (Angel Eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of the chapters follow the angst tag and have mention of violence, it is this one. Proceed with caution. The important thing to know about this chapter is that Angel tells a story in a way he shouldn't.
> 
> Also the thing with Wallace will be resolved later ;)

_Be not afraid!_ _For_ _behold,_ _I bring you good news_ _of great_ _joy t_ _hat_ _will be_ _for all_ _the_ _people:_

Two days after today, this will finally be over. 

I pen another line carefully, gilted words for all the guilt they ought to entail. Not that I've succeeded in shaking the sickening feeling off. All that excess of saccharine coated tradition, ritual that I lack the reason for-- it continues to remind me, for all Blondie's best efforts, of a time my intentions rarely strayed from poisonous. 

It was a Christmas party. The motive for Rose was both practical and vindictive. The host, criminal overlord Jacob Laurent hadn't made good by the letter on a cut of his political racketeering. 

For some reason, this is one of the few hit jobs in which I found motive.

So many I've cut down who were at best circumstantially deserving of it, at Rose's whim, but Laurent Chabot was as neck deep in blood as I, and far hungrier for pain. I relished few assignments, but this one stuck in my younger self's mind as a coal-black justice.

The celebration, glittering with two-faceted falseness in every ornament, was one I took a companion for. A women I never knew of beyond the pseudonym  _ Lara,  _ which may well have been the name she considered hers. For my part, that night I was Marius. 

I blink at the careless drip of ink I've let fall on the wood of my desk. Set my pen back for the moment. Perhaps if I let the tale run its course once more, subject myself to the picture reel of its corruption. Perhaps then it would cease hanging over me like a spectre with every new ritual my companions jovially suggest. 

...there remains something terribly Oedipal about my vicious righteousness, given the similarity of the spectacle to my father's own Christmas. 

I hadn't dwelt on that before. 

Still then,  _ quale il padre tale il figlio _ . He'd have been proud of my unflinching deeds that night. And I've much regret for that.

A footstep sounds at the base of the attic stair-- I leap to my feet, ready to draw out the gun under my desk as needed-- 

A lumbering form, hunched in religious habit comes into view. Simply our pious guest. I sit back down, just as he nods gravely at me. 

What on Earth gave him the idea to enter here? And for that matter, why didn't Blondie or Tuco stop him? 

I stare, raising an eyebrow to indicate that this intrusion is neither expected nor welcomed. Undeterred, he continues up the stairs, looks about at the partial mess of dusty boxes amid my modest haven.

“I thought it best to thank you for your hospitality today -- I’ll be back around evening. Mass to attend to," he says it gravely, continuing to stare. I set my teeth, turning back to my work. 

“Well then. I hope the mass preparations go well,” I turn pointedly back to my illuminations. 

“Sebastian,” the name I gave to Father Paul, what purpose would invoking that serve? He continues, “I feel the need to urge you-- confess what it is you are feeling. I can't help but think it won't be ill-received."

I freeze, what could he  _ possibly _ know of what I'm thinking? Did Tuco tell him of my past? Did Blondie? To what purpose? 

And more importantly, what would telling either of them the specifics of this cause but suffering?

“Did it seem as if I retreated here because I wanted counsel?” I choose my words carefully, near dangerously. 

“It seemed as if you were retreating in avoidance of your companions. I wondered if --”

“You  _ wondered _ .” 

I've forgotten the effect of my voice at its most threatening -- seeing Wallace retreat two steps downward is at first viciously satisfying, followed by an uneasy wave of guilt. 

He starts, "I apologize--" 

"Go," I force out the syllable, looking away. Then I add, for the sake of my  _ companions  _ and this entire godforsaken holiday, "I'll see you this evening."

There's something familiar about those words that aches like a jab to a bruise. 

He takes his leave quickly down the stairs, and even after that first step I regret letting him go so easily. What power of any god gave him the right to violate the poor attempts at another man's sanctuary with such utter naivete?  _ Maledizione _ , in the world I'd lived in he'd have been dead simply for the implicit threat of entering. 

I'm at my feet, blood gently roaring in my ears. No, he  _ should _ know the particulars of why that should never be attempted again. 

I take the steps two at a time, but my hesitation was too long. 

The front door is shut tight against the howl of the winter wind. 

I suppose I stare long enough it bears question. Tuco starts to fill the silence, babbling cheerfully from the couch, "Oh you know he'll be back eventually. Maybe I should help, seeing as he's missing a pair of hands, only I'm not sure the other priests like me much. They didn't even like Pablo! What chance do I have?"

"You done grinching upstairs?" It takes me a moment to realize that Blondie is addressing me. 

"...grinching?" I repeat, preoccupied with the way the edges of my skin feel as if they're peeling away. 

"You know, like the kid's story about the green--"

“Did it occur to you that there might be a very salient reason I removed myself from this? 

“Um-- yea--”

I sit, all too sudden and hard in the wooden rocking chair to face them. It creaks as if being rent open. 

And then, God help me-- I speak.

“Let me tell you another fairy-story, since you and every other priest seems so damn intent on shoving them in my face. Once, a devil, dressed in human clothes attended a so-called Christmas party, at the behest of one who sent him to kill."

The fire snaps in the momentary silence, causing me to flinch. It changes nothing, the sordid tale already spilling from my lips.

"Do you want to know, what murderers and criminals look like when they celebrate Christmas? Just the same as this. Just the same. Many of them will preach gospel with the same  _ gravitas  _ a priest would, offer charity as if they won't threaten a to leave a body in a dumpster a few hours later."

"it's so goddamn insensible. Laughable. So the devil thought. So he thought; this is fitting. "

Out of the haze of memories I remember faintly a notion of my audience, "You hustlers. You would know, if I told you, to lie you have to wear the role like your own skin. So of course. Of course the devil took part, laughed with overwrought joy, danced with the woman who he'd been provided with for the sole purpose of his role. Of course it felt good to. Such is the illusion that  _ Christmas  _ is meant to entail."

"But come the deed, all that fell away. Come the deed, the devil felt  _ righteous,  _ cutting away those who would uphold such rituals and not mean a damn thing by them. The devil killed him in the bathroom, one shot, silenced at close range."

I’m distantly aware my voice has become drawn, almost shaky, but it’s the firelight telling the story now, the images branded into my mind and all I can do is describe them. 

"It was only when the blood pooled on the floor that the damned fool devil saw his own utter hypocrisy in this. For all he kept that knowledge close, on any other day-- he'd let it slip away for that evening. There are no avenging angels. There are only killers killing killers, and those who have the misfortune of finding the bodies."

For a moment I blink, feeling something of relief flicker through my body like the firelight. I meet Blondie's eyes, that measured study of horror and fascination alike, there’s something I’ve missed here.

With all the suddenness of a shattered wineglass, Tuco bolts from the couch, faster than I can even realize what’s been said. What I’ve done.

I turn just to catch the door to the bedroom slamming shut. 

_ Christus _ . Fuck. What the hell was I --

“So what did the devil do then?”

I freeze at Blondie’s quiet question, gloved hands white knuckled on the armchair. I open my mouth, casting another frantic glance to the bedroom, but he leans forward in my peripheral vision.

“You tell me now, you’ve already done that.”

This time, it’s near impossible to meet his eyes. When I manage it, there’s no anger in them, no accusation. 

It makes no difference to how difficult it is to end this. 

“I left.”

He gets up slowly, lips drawn tight, and crosses the room. Covers my hand with his, just shakes his head once. The lump in my throat feels choking. 

“Right. Don’t go anywhere.”   
  
“What?” 

He squeezes my hand once, jerking his head towards the bedroom door, “I’m gonna go check on him, swear to me you won’t run out.”

I blink, my first thought being that hadn’t occurred to me. The second being that if it inevitably had -- good god, how am I to ask my  _ paraja _ forgiveness for this selfish outburst? 

But then, how much more selfish would it be not to try to find  _ some  _ way to? I turn my hand over at last, returning the gesture with as much sincerity as I can muster. 

“You have my word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _quale il padre tale il figlio_ \- Like father, like son. Italian.


	7. straw and cigarillos (Tuco)

This is not the right place to recover, from the recollection of Angel’s touch and taste and scent; the heavy stuffed quilts, the soft familiar pillows, they’re all refuge from the world that chased him and his partner for years, carry the stamp of the murderer. 

Even the fire simmering to coals is too much, even if the faintly smoky air will offer some excuse for the tears coursing down his face. And yet to be seen like this- christo, no- 

He’s got the window open and a foot on the sill, when Blondie slips in the door. 

“Not gonna bother asking how you’re doing.” 

Which, with Blondie’s stark simplicity, would be enough for a laugh; Tuco bites down on his cheek, hard. Like trying too soon after a fuck, he’s not quite ready yet. 

“Might as well get out, if you’re planning.” 

Just to avoid responding to that, he goes; carelessly wrapped in the big green shawl his partner favours, the one that smells like old mutton fat and tobacco smoke. Not much protection against this kind of weather, but that’s not what it’s for. 

The careful skip-step through unmarked snow, the blistering wind, the unbearably harsh sting of tears freezing to crystal- it’s only a little distance to the apple shed, five minutes walk in clear weather, but it feels like eternity before his shaking, unfeeling hands push open the half door, letting him crawl inside. 

(There ought to be a lock on it, but it got to be a nuisance and anyway why should they be needed here? Though maybe he should chivalrously promise Pablo to stop stealing from monks for Christmas.)

Inside there’s some shelter from the wind, if not the temperature; the straw left over from packing boxes is still here, and he burrows underneath it, wrapping Blondie’s shawl about him tightly enough to make a small nest, one corner left over to rest his head on. 

He cries freely then, until the reaction’s had time to catch up with him, until the wildness of misbegotten northern weather has had enough time to sink into his flesh and make him more miserable about that than the wholly unmoving narrator at the gatehouse (ridiculous picture, but- still). Long enough that there’s no room for memory or empathy any longer, when all he wants is sheer comforting warmth. 

And to his partner's credit, that uncanny skill for dramatic timing in a crisis, it's then he hears the rattle of the door, and the rush of wind that marks it open.

"Tuco?"

He pops his head out from the straw, which must be comedic from the way Blondie's lips almost twitch. He could get upset about that, but his partner hunkers down next to him in the hay and he half tumbles into the familiar comfort of a warm embrace. 

Blondie wraps something around him that Tuco recognizes as his own winter coat, after his shivering has died down. He swallows, eyes still dry for now. 

"Is he all right?" is the first thing Tuco manages to ask. His voice sounds like himself, at least, so that's something. 

"You're not," is all Blondie says, readjusting his grip so that Tuco is more so perched in his lap. Bless his partner's hot blood. 

"I'm just cold. Worried."

"He'll be fine, I think. Only he's mad at himself now, too." 

Tuco offers a shivered nod into Blondie's shoulder. Going out in his slippers, that's something he almost regrets. They'll take hours to dry by the fire. The same fire that Angel Eyes couldn't seem to look away from--

"You wanna go back in?"

He shakes his head to that.

"You wanna go to the car, warm up, go for a drive? I told Angel I thought you might be there."

"No, just. A minute longer. Then we'll go back," that sounds like him too, like something he's sure of. 

"Whatever you want," Blondie presses a kiss to his forehead, and that's Angel's doing. When they were on the run his partner was only half as affectionate, the other half caught up in whatever the road had ground them into being this time. It wasn't till waking beside his lover, those piercing eyes searching for the familiar self...

Or maybe that wasn't so much Angel as having a home that neither of them wanted to run out from.

Most of the time, anyways. When he wasn't thinking too hard about the cost.

"Hey, Blondie?" he doesn't much like the question on his lips, but if he doesn't ask it now it'll probably come back to him.

"Hmm?"

"When did you stop...hustling Angel?" even as he asks, it sounds a stupid question, really. When does a hustle ever stop?  _ Santa Maria, _ a good hustler shouldn't know the answer. But Blondie has an answer, good or bad, even if he fumbles in his jacket for a cigarillo and a lighter before he gives it. 

"He told me about his father once. First time we went to see a movie, when he took me to an Italian restaurant. He told that story like it was something that happened to someone else. It was actually a lot like that, when I think about it."

"Like just now? And that's what turned you over to him? Blondie, you're crazier than I thought." 

Blondie shrugs, "Yeah. I know."

But there’s a lot of his partner in that, of course -- once a martyr collecting his audience of sinners, always. Or maybe it was the call of that silver screen presence for his silver tongue. Every good story needs a villain. Even if the hero is in bed with him. 

If Blondie asked him right now, he might just say he flipped like a coin on the way Angel laughed. Blondie doesn’t ask. 

He does, however, offer Tuco some of his cigarillo, and that puts enough of the heat back into his chest that he’s ready to cross the snow again just to be in front of the fire. He straightens up, settles into Blondie’s arms until the cigarillo is done with. By then, his partner knows. 

For all having a coat and a warm arm thrown around him helps, it doesn’t do much for his wet feet. But the burst of heat when he opens the gatehouse door -- it still looks, smells, feels like home. 

“Hey, Angel!” he calls out into the absence. It’s not the attic stairs that his lover comes from, but rather a slow and stricken entrance from the bedroom. 

“Tuco, I -- I’m--” whatever Angel going to say, Tuco isn’t up to hearing it, and wraps him in an ice-cold hug.

“Shh, just shut up, okay? I’m getting warm.”

There’s a beat in which Tuco is relatively sure Angel throws some kind of panicked look to Blondie. It hardly matters. His teeth have just about stopped chattering. Angel’s heart is beating awful quick though. 

“That may be a better proposition with a blanket, by the fire,” Angel says gently after a few moments. 

Tuco shrugs, allows himself to be wrapped in the red tartan blanket, so long as his partner is warming his one side and his lover is quiet and safe on the other. It's all still here. 

Nothing's happened, not really. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, leans on his partner's shoulder. Stretches out his legs onto Angel's lap when his lover goes to move away. 

Angel blinks, "Something in me always knew I would need your capacity for forgiveness so desperately."

Such a ridiculous thing to say, to nothing but a greedy gesture demanding comfort from the most unlikely of places. Tuco tugs at his hand.

"C'mere, you idiot." With encouragement, Angel eases himself slowly onto his other shoulder, tucking his feet up onto the couch. 

"Tuco, I am so deeply sorry--"

"Its okay. You're not going to do that anymore," he's not sure if he means telling the story the way he did, or  _ Jacob y Esau _ , what he  _ did _ , but Angel seems to understand, nods gently beneath him. 

It's sort of funny, to think that with enough time Angel could fall asleep like this. He's done it before. 

Blondie tilts his head around Tuco, "You still need to talk about it, though, we can go for a drive later."

Angel exhales, a shaky sort of sigh, "Thank you, but. I don't know that I could."

"S'alright. Susan's gonna be here in a few days, too, remember," Blondie adds bracingly.

"Ah. I might have thought of that."

Tuco stays quiet, squeezing his partner's knee gently. He and Blondie snapped away from each other a lot on the road, much as they always found their way back to the same front seat. Sometimes it got to you, having nowhere to go on your own, and the person around you wasn't anything like what you needed. 

Angel sits up slightly, looking to Blondie, "I should apologize to you too. I know what the holiday means to you. I was. Trying so hard not to make a mess of it."

"If Christmas couldn't survive someone throwing a fit people would have given it up years ago. Hell, that was almost a tradition, at my aunt's house."

"I'm not sure I should take comfort from that, much as I'm tempted to."

Tuco nudges him with his elbow, " _ Dios mío _ , do it anyways. We've thrown aside a lot of shoulda, together, what's one more?"

Angel doesn't manage a laugh, but he does smile, leaning his warmth deeper into Tuco's shoulder. It's still some distance to everything being all right, but Tuco has a good feeling, with his partner by his side, it's going to be.


	8. visiting the imprisoned (Angel Eyes, Tuco)

“Potato and egg salad, anyone?” Blondie asks. 

“Oooh!” Penny shrieks, cheerful as advertised. “Go on, then.” 

“Always knew I’d be seeing you in a jail one of these days,” Susan says to me in an undertone. Her attention is divided into three parts, courtesy to me being the least; she’s preoccupied by the stark, too shadowy waiting room, and almost more than that a lingering gaze at her lover’s all-encompassing enthusiasm. If she allowed herself this much simple joy during our entire stint together, I’m not able to bring it to mind. 

“Would it surprise you to know that of the three of us, I’m the only one who hasn’t been imprisoned?”

“...it would not. No.” 

Now that sounds exactly like the dust-dry woman I employed, understanding if not empathetic- at the time, exactly what I desired and she required. Our parting of the ways has not been so extravagant as to make reconciliation a burden, and yet I wonder whether she’s feeling as enclosed as I am, trying to fit back into the material of a long-shed shell. 

Or perhaps that’s just a natural uncertainty, in light of yesterday’s self-wrought calamity. Second-guessing is a luxury I can afford more easily, these days. 

“Uhmm, and this is just the start,” Tuco says, digging a spoon deep into the basin of white-on-white-on-white (mayonnaise, I believe he mentioned. And something about white pepper.) 

“Joooe,” Penny coos. “You really shouldn’t have. Not before I got here to help, anyway!”

He blushes at that, positively- my careworn  _ innamorato _ , now reduced to a kind of happy ianity while his potluck skill is praised. I might worry, if not for one praiseworthy aspect of this wretched season- it will eventually end. Which is more than could be said for the majority of the unsalutary passages of my life. 

In the meantime, nevertheless, there is a certain fetching cod-innocence about it. And Tuco can’t stop chuckling- 

“I mean, I could have gone in first, but I thought, hey, Wallace deserves some Christmas too- not that I’d ever say it to a monk,” he winks at Penny. “I think he fancies my brother. A little bit.” 

“Oooh, how romantic- how heartbreaking! To yearn after a darling desert hero, deliciously untouchable-” 

“...Penny, he’s from Brooklyn too? You remember. Like me.” 

“It’s not my fault if the first story you gave me was the better one- just like Susan here. Remember that one, dearie?”

“I do.” 

And even with the comfortable assurance of two , I could all but envy Susan’s self-satisfied surety-

“But I can’t wait to get inside and give him this,” Tuco says, fondling a tissue-wrapped parcel. “Orange marmalade fruitcake! It’ll keep for ages, he can sort of nibble at it. I had a piece earlier just to check, it’s lovely. “

“I wouldn’t let him drive,” Blondie says to Penny, gravely. “He tasted like a brandy sampler.” 

“Ohh hoo hoo, I just bet- can I try?”

Tuco shrieks, ducks out of range as Blondie manfully defends him with the wadded bundle of their winter coats. Penny draws back, laughing, trips on someone’s errant scarf and falls smack dab into Blondie’s lap. 

“I don’t think they’ve got any damn idea what it means-” Susan begins. 

“I don’t think any of you have a notion how to behave in a prison,” a voice says, very reproachful; it’s Wallace, looking calmer now for all his words. “Benedict, you’re next.” 

“Benedict?” Penny’s hooting, while Blondie’s attempting to extract himself (none too zealously, to be sure).

Tuco nods, looking rather serious abruptly. “He says that until I get around to calling my brother Paul- yeech, Paul!- he’ll keep calling me that...what else can we do? Because I’m not stopping so he won’t either.”

Off he disappears, and with him, most of the gaiety; Wallace’s presence rather puts a dampener on things. 

* * *

Tuco isn’t entirely sure what he expected, visiting on Christmas Eve. Normally the prisoner’s visitation room is a barren space, several tables and a few guards watching with a bit of a bored air. Pablo’s prison wasn't one for the hardened sort of criminals.

The whole room is an explosion of cheap tinsel and tacky decor, complete with a plastic tree with flickering colored lights. They could get a picture with a cardboard Santa cutout. Pablo is sitting closest to the tree, hands folded and a tired smile on his lips. 

Tuco grins back and joins him, “Hey, how's this for Christmas cheer! Sorry we couldn't come for the day of. Called a little too late." 

He passes the wrapped package across the table, suddenly off balance -- this place may be festive, sure, but it's a lurid, bought Christmas. In spite of all the gold Angel dropped on Pablo's desk that fateful Tuesday, not much of it ever went to brightening up the priory's stone for Christmas solemnity. 

…or maybe it did. Tuco wasn't there, after all. And Blondie wouldn't have remembered. 

"Your presence is all the gift I need. Did Wallace not tell you I have no real need for gifts?"

"Oh it's just cake, don’t you start with that. One of the few things they’d let me give you here, thought you could have bits of it for a few weeks,” Tuco chews at the inside of his cheek, somewhat at a loss for words. His brother has ways of doing that, sometimes. 

“Wallace told me of the charity you offered him over the holidays. I’m glad, for him- for myself also, if I'm being selfish."

Tuco gives him a long dry look. "You, brother? Selfish as me?"

Pablo doesn't quite rise to the gag. "One of my few regrets ending up in here is that he has no companionship maintaining the priory. Apart from the Benedictines," here he suppresses a small frown of distaste. Even holy Pablo doesn't like those holier-than-thou brothers, Tuco figures.

"With all that you don't like 'em, I thought maybe you'd tell Wallace off for calling me that." Half to himself. 

"Does that bother you? It is your name."

Tuco winces. Spoiling for a fight on Christmas Eve, isn't that just like Tuco Ramirez? 

"Sure, like Pablo is yours!" Doesn't stop him from saying it, though. 

"Yes and no….though I've a notion of a younger self I would disserve, not to let my family call me by that name." 

"Well. I guess so,” there, now Pablo said as much. He shouldn’t let Wallace get to him. 

“Although Mother and Father manage," Pablo adds, a light in his eye that's half-chiding and half-indulgent (makes him feel all of nine, for a moment.) "You feel differently? 

"Might agree with you if it was Benedicto, which  _ is _ my name."

"That makes a difference?" damn his little brother’s wide-eyed so-called innocence. But Tuco doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t. 

"To me. Yeah." 

"Well to my remembrances it will set you apart from the Benedictines that are at the priory. So, Benedicto it shall be," he breaks off a piece of the cake, chewing at it carefully, "this will have me wondering at the name of our Lord and savior for the remainder of today, I suspect." 

Tuco blinks. This wasn’t the way he'd imagined this conversation might go, should he work up the nerve to finally have it-- hell, he expected smiling and nodding through a sermon, sure, but he’d long since given up expecting Pablo to take up calling him anything other than ‘Benedict’. Except maybe when he needed something from a man outside the law, but that's not the only time he's Tuco.

Still. As Blondie says, better than a punch in the nose.

“Um. Wondering about roots of the name Jesus?” he almost winces saying the name out loud, the holiness of it too heavy on his tongue. Maybe he should have said Jesús, just to make a point of it. But Pablo looks thoughtful.

"No, no I'm wondering if he can be thought to have chosen the name. But then, the father chooses in some sense. That much we generally have in common.”

Tuco half shrugs, "For some of us. Actually. For none of us when I think about it. I don't even know the name Angel's father gave him. Sort of a sensitive topic, you know how he is."

"Naming can be." 

"Aw, don't give me that look, Pablo!" it’s like he’s trying to apologize, somehow. Damnit, Tuco thinks, this is  _ also _ Angel’s fault, and Blondie’s too. This is what happens when you get talking without a hustle behind it. 

“I’m sorry, that’s all I wished to say. That I hadn’t given your discomfort with it much thought. You know that is the main penance and punishment that this place offers. An excess of time to think,” he pauses, breaking off another small piece of the cake, “And pray, of course. For whatever forgiveness our Lord has to offer.”

Tuco shakes his head, “Thought you’d get to the sermon eventually. I hope someone's listening to you in there, maybe you'll get to save them. Or keep them awake during the preaching, at least! Especially for Christmas.”

Pablo does smile at that. One of the things he’s most proud of is speaking at the weekly mass that’s offered for the inmates. It does Tuco good, seeing his brother with that much to look forward to. And eating the cake, that's a fine sign also.

“Well. Shall we have a picture then? Something to brighten up your gatehouse?”

Years of hiding tells and his mouth both drop away into a wide grin. “You know, I didn’t think you were going to ask!”

Pablo shrugs, looking half regretful already; but doesn’t object when Tuco layers on the ridiculous green scarf and Santa hat they have waiting. The photographer gestures them in front of the flashing lights of the tree, and Tuco throws his arm over his brother (and another hat on his long-suffering head).

“Say cheese!”

On the drive home, when the polaroid finally develops into an image Tuco can make out, he can’t help but think it’ll be a funny thing to look back on years later. One Christmas in prison -- well, they’ll have at least one more, before Pablo is back leading the Christmas mass. 

Next year, he’ll remember to call ahead. But as the brightness of the tree lights and Pablo’s smile comes into view, he can’t help but think this didn’t turn out so bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious as to why Pablo is in jail, that is actually discussed in the next chapter!


	9. crossing the snow (Angel Eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is what gave the fic its 'M' rating -- it starts with a pretty spicy but not quite explicit pre-sex scene. You can scroll past it and not miss too much if you're not here for that :)

It’s testament to just how relaxed I’ve become in the presence of my  _ innamorato  _ that his hand tracks halfway down my chest before I wake. The fire in our bedroom has kept up from when I arose to stoke it a few hours ago. Sleeping through the night, that much hasn't yet come naturally to me, but I do sleep, which is more than I could have said before. 

And Blondie's hand continues to slide yet lower.

"You know," Blondie's voice is a soft, sleep-fucked rumble behind my ear, "it took me a lot longer than Tuco to be able to tell when you're really sleeping. It's a good hustle." 

His hand has settled on the sharpness of my hipbone, fingers teasing at the hair next to my already hard cock. 

"A fair amount of practice," no glib proverbs in any tongue come to mind here, "What, pray tell, are you--"

"Come on, you need me to explain it? Hold your hand though it?" here I can feel that insouciant smirk, "but I forgot, have you ever had a fuck you had to stay quiet for? Do I have to worry you can't?" 

" _ Dulce pomum quum abest custos. _ I assure you, I have ample practice holding my tongue in adverse condi--" my words are cut off with a slight gasp, as his fingers brush slowly over the tip of my cock.  _ Maledizione _ , waking is a time of weakness. 

"Talking won't do you any favors, you want my advice," he whispers, his tongue teasing at the shell of my ear, "You alright with that,  _ cariño _ ?"

It’s the slippage into the unfamiliar tongue, still coy and yet with that utterly earnest note that makes it easy to give in. I nod once, knowing a request when I hear it. Biting my cheek when he begins to move his hand in earnest. 

"Hey, hey, were you two just not going to wake me up?" Tuco hisses from Blondie’s other side, and I can guess from the shuffle and the soft cry Blondie lets out that Tuco has nipped at his ear. 

"Was wondering when you'd join us," Blondie murmurs easily, turning over to kiss his longtime partner on the lips thoroughly, "Angel hasn't had to be quiet while fucking. Why don't you give him something to do with his mouth?"

They don't make it easy, to stifle the gasps and strains of passion. Still,  _ mens regnum bona possidet. _ I can’t pretend it isn’t exactly what I need, what all of us do, to seal over the craquelure of the  _ pasticcio _ I’d made a few days prior. 

I place my hand on Tuco’s chest, once we’re laying tangled and spent. It’s heartening to see that yes -- after all we’ve been through and overcome, there may still be yet more crises, tragedies, small catastrophes. We’ll weather them just the same. 

“Okay, so who’s going to see if we woke Wallace? I’m not,” Blondie drawls quietly, reaching over my bare chest for his cigarillos.

“I say Angel’s gotta, he was the one who gasped the loudest,” Tuco points out. I’ve no reason to argue. 

“If I must. I’ve got the least stake in being known to have sinned in front of a priest.”

“Amen,” Blondie says dryly, and that gets a bark of a laugh out of me as I rummage around the ruins of the sheets for my clothes. 

I open the door quietly, casting a glance towards the couch, where our guest, for his part,  _ is  _ sat up and pointedly staring out the window. When Wallace catches the sound of my foot brushing off the step, he turns to me with a panicked, beet red expression.

I can only think what my  _ pareja  _ would do, in a situation such as this. 

I put a finger to my lips, shaking my head, then poke my head back to the bedroom, where my two lovers are languidly finding their own bedclothes. I nod, my face perfectly calm and blank. Then I cross to the bathroom and shut the door tight. 

It’s right before I’m about to clean myself that I hear the rumble of a forced “Good morning”, followed by a yell I know well to be Blondie’s. I chuckle and turn on the hot water. Christmas morning, indeed. 

All seems to be forgiven when my partners join me in the shower, and indeed, even Wallace seems to have taken the moment in stride once we're all sat at the breakfast table. With a light meal of scones and fruit behind us, punctuated by Blondie and Tuco’s neverending stream of anecdotes (the year I hear one I’ve heard before will make me quite fond indeed), I just about believe I’ve avoided any further uncomfortable conversations with our guest.

That is, until he approaches me alone as I’m contemplating how to expand dining arrangements for two more. Wallace clears his throat, glancing to check that Blondie and Tuco are otherwise occupied with their coats, "I must apologize again for my intrusion earlier. I spoke out of turn, seeing a man confounded by denial. But still, I am heartened to see your confession of love was well received."

I blink, too stupified to speak, "You wanted me to confess what … Wallace, we all sleep in that bedroom every night?"

"You did? You were in the attic every evening as far as I could tell?" 

" _ Interdum stultus bene loquitur _ ," I laugh helplessly, "If someone had told me of this misunderstanding I would not have believed it possible."

"Come to think of it, there wasn't a bed that I saw upstairs," he scratches the back of his head. 

"Yes, well. Rest assured I did eventually take what I needed from your advice. Indirectly.”

“Then I will thank God that my own foolishness jumping to conclusions did not hinder you any.”

I realize belatedly he probably understood my offhand proverb, and that it could have been construed as belittling, “I was the fool in more ways than one, you’ll find. I’m glad you were able to find refuge here, as much as the couch is poor substitute for a bed.”

“It’s been more than hospitable. I must of course take my leave to assist with mass -- I trust you’ll not be attending?”

“No, not in this case. I’ll be preparing the house for whatever Blondie is to make of our Christmas dinner. You’ll be joining us again?”

“Just for the meal, if I’m welcome.”

“Absolutely.”

And with that charity offered, he retreats from the dining area to join my lovers in crossing the snow-covered grounds. I watch them from the window, the silence from their absence ringing in my ears like bells.

In spite of all my retreats to the study these past few days, I find myself eager for the three of them to return. 

* * *

“Susan, good to see you!” Blondie is all-together too jovial in whatever holiday spirit has possessed him.

My former student and confidante shakes the snow off of the knitted hat on her head, but doesn’t take off her coat. I set down the Catallus I was glancing over, already anticipating needing to bundle up. 

The gatehouse kitchen, on the other hand, is looking less so festive and more so a disaster. I try not to frown at the peculiar trail of liquid from the counter to the burner of the stove. After all, he’s kept it off the floor. 

"The gelatin is turning out great!" 

“Glad to hear,” now that must sound dismissive, to my  _ immorato _ ’s attuned ears, but I smile at him to let him know the effort, if not the product, is appreciated. 

Susan, for her part, takes it with a weary shake of her head, “You been out for watch on the grounds yet?”

“Earlier. Could go a second time, if you’d prefer.”

“Yeah. Don’t want to get spoiled on the surprise of a midwest Christmas dinner. I guess,” Susan, on the other hand, is putting in very little effort not to be sardonic. I raise an eyebrow at her with a smile, and pull my own winter hat over my ears. Come to think on it, hers very well may be a handmade gift as well. 

Christmas day has been more than white, swirling with a wind that nips at the senses when outside of the gatehouse’s solid stone walls. 

When we get a few steps out of earshot, the half-foot of snow crunching beneath our boots, Susan lets out a huff of breath, "Angel Eyes, I know you love that damn fool, but I’m not interested in eating whatever a midwesterner considers to be food. How much do you need me to fake this? I’ll only do the minimum, for your sake.” 

“It’s a relief to  _ not _ hear you say, ‘because it’s Christmas’, and for that, I’ll only ask that you make the best of half a plate,” I scan the buttresses of the largest chapel, knowing that Susan’s watchful gaze is well at my back, no need to move too quickly or have eyes everywhere.

"How did he talk you out of being the one to cook?"

I raise my eyes through the flakes of snow, considering how best to answer, "Regarding how well my attempts to engage in the Christmas spirit prior to the day have gone, perhaps it's for the best."

"Was this about the Chabot Soiree?" 

I cough, nearly stopping our quick pace across the grounds, "Sometimes I forget you were present for most of my career."

"Enough,”she doesn’t stare, there’s too much ground for us to cover for that. But of course, she’s listening, “Not that you were much for the holidays before, but that job did a number on you." 

I consider this, that it was obvious then, even to her. Of course, Susan does know me to a degree that would only be surpassed by my partners both. And then some places, more than others. For that, I owe her the best answer I can make of the mess I was a few days prior. 

"...it showed me certain things I wanted that I hadn't accepted yet, I suppose. Demonstrated to me just how unworthy I was of them."

"Makes sense," her gaze lingers on me then, even as we survey. Observing without judgment, but not absent from understanding.  _ Christo,  _ I'd forgotten what that was like. Who I learned it from. 

All those months I spent, coaxing Blondie to understanding, building my own forgiveness brick by bloodied brick-- I would have attributed the skill to my mentor. But then again, if Alma had possessed it, or if I had, when she was alive-- 

\-- well, as resistant as I am to the mood of the season, this seems an unduly bleak line of thought to go down.  _ Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. _ My mind spins back to gratitude, just as we reach the crumbling ramparts of the northern corner. I pause, observing the way the snow has settled, untouched atop the aging stone. 

"You know, Susan, I owe you a debt I'll never be able to repay."

"The hell you getting sentimental for now, Angel Eyes? Is  _ that _ Christmas getting to you?"

I laugh gently. Hearing that skepticism from her-- it's more heartening than I would have given it credit for, "Simply that it took a lot of exactly the kind of listening that you've always offered to me, for myself-- for all of us to find ourselves the peace that we have."

"Sometimes you're not like Charlie at all. Most of the time, in fact. Sonofabitch would never have thanked me for anything." 

"Not to speak ill of the dead, but I'm sure that did you a terrible disservice," I slow in my steps, just to let that have the silence it deserves, but a moment later she shakes her head and keeps walking.

"When I think about it too much. Anyways, you've already paid back that debt, whatever that means. If it wasn't for you, chasing those two morons across the whole country, I never would have had anything to do with Penny. Just wouldn't have thought I could do it."

"It's a fair amount to get used to."

“Tch. When I saw Ramirez hugging you at the prison, all I could think was how that must have taken you at least as much time to get used to that," 

“Yes and no, you remember that time he claimed I fell asleep on him? I did, in fact.”

“God, that was a hell of a shock. I thought about asking if you were sick. It was harder to find time to drop the cook act, for all you were mooning after him,” her lips turns up, just at the corner, “I guess I’ll have to call him Tuco now, since there’s two of them with his brother. Even if the other one is in prison, for what?”

“Money laundering. I ah. May have provided him with two hundred thousand dollars. In gold.”

“Rose’s?”

“I knew it was untraceable, at the very least.”

“Underhanded, Angel Eyes.” she shakes her head, scuffing her boot in the snow. 

“Very naive. I assume people have more common sense about how to deal with such matters.”

“You did  _ not _ .”

“And a priory too, with gold? The logical thing to do would be to smuggle it out moulded into crosses and the like. It seemed perfectly simple to me.”

“Well, I suppose if he really didn’t know shit, he could ask you for help.”

“True, though I fear my early impressions were something of the terrifying. I was more concerned with other matters at the time.”

"Tch. Penny's said she's a bit frightened by you. Sometimes," she doesn’t look at me when she says it, her eyes fixed on the stone walls that surround us. I wonder, perhaps, if she’s angry. 

"That's warranted."

"Uh-huh. You got any tips on-- mm. How I can stop wondering if she's afraid of me?" 

Oh. Now that I hadn’t at all considered that Susan, in all of her acerbic comments and measured silences, would have much in the way of uncertainty. How terribly self-centered of me. 

"Not many,” I say in a way I hope is bracing. It sounds regretful even to my own ears, “She stands by you, does she not?”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _ Frente al amor y la muerte no sirve de nada ser fuerte. _ That may be the best you can hope for. But you can always express it, if you fear it may be hurting her.”

“...and say what?” she’s been thinking about this a long time, I perceive. Trite proverbs in Spanish will only do so much. 

Then what remains: nothing but truth, pure and ugly as it seems. 

“Simply that you’re worried she might be afraid, and that she’s free to leave if that is what she decides."

“Makes sense.”

“It’s one thing that haunted me most with Blondie, or blindsided me. Both, really. It took a long time to have that conversation,” I feel I should add more, but my tongue is held fast. Some things can only be said once, not retold. But Susan seems to understand, jerking her head back to our home in the distance. 

“Speaking of which -- should we get back to see what he’s claiming is edible?” 

“I suppose we must,” I suppress a smile, making it look like a grimace. If nothing else, this will be a source of amusement. 

“Thank you, for the advice too.”

"Of course," I say quietly, casting one last look around the pristine grounds. The snow is marked only by our footsteps. So it must be safe, then, for the moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Dulce pomum quum abest custos_ \- Sweet is the apple when the keeper is away. Latin. 
> 
> _mens regnum bona possidet_ \- His own desire leads every man. Latin. 
> 
> _Interdum stultus bene loquitur_ \- A fool may give a wise man counsel. Latin. 
> 
> _Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit._ \- Perhaps someday we will look on these things with joy. Latin. 
> 
> _Frente al amor y la muerte no sirve de nada ser fuerte._ \- Death has no strength as compared to love. Spanish. 
> 
> ...honestly you can tell how good a mood Angel is in by how much Latin he is thinking :)


	10. all seven fishes (Blondie)

"Watch it, watch it!"

"Shhh!"

"What, you think they can hear us?"

"I think they're coming back!"

They're not quite yet, in fact.

Blondie runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he watches from the window.  _ 'Sides, if anything would spoil the surprise, it's the smell of fish and not Penny and Tuco bantering.  _ Still. At this point, the table is laden heavy with seven whole fish dishes. He breaks off a piece of lutefisk, which isn't counted among the seven. He's still fond of it. 

But he has to admit, even his Aunt's best can't hold a candle to what Wallace and Tuco have cooked up. A steaming plate of stuffed clams, full of rich sausage -- Tuco made a point of saying those probably weren’t traditional, only Angel would probably like that. Of course there’s pasta, two of them. One covered with a rich red tomato sauce that Blondie can smell the anchovies in, the other speckled with salt cod. There’s a basket of simple scallops, deep fried to a golden brown, and fried smelts next to them. Fish balls, floating in a bowl of basil-laden tomato sauce--  _ almost like a soup. Bet that’ll be his favourite _ . 

And in the middle, a whole baked cod, crispy and laden with lemon and vegetables.

“Well, I have to hand it to you,” Blondie leans against the counter, “It all looks great.”

“You think he’ll like it?” Tuco asks.

“How couldn’t he? All this food!” Penny bounces on her heels, eyeing the stuffed clams with delight.

"I hope so, yeah," Blondie is about to turn back to the window when he hears the door open, “Shi--”

“SURPRISE!” Tuco and Penny yell in unison. Prematurely, in fact-- it’s just Wallace, shaking his head and stomping his boots. 

“Oops, sorry about that, Wallace,” Tuco shakes his head, “ _ Mierda _ , normally I like a good hustle, but Angel doesn’t like surprises, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t think you were wrong when you thought it was something he could handle. And Susan agreed, so…”

“You two! Is he really as scary as he looks?”   


“You think Angel looks scary?” Tuco presses his fingers against his mustache, “Okay, you have a point -- only I know he doesn’t always like being reminded of his family.”

“He said it was his favourite,” Blondie points out.

“I know, I was  _ there _ , Blondie. I just -- no more skeletons in the closet. I got a nice picture of Pablo for the mantle, and a nice fire to curl up around you two later on.  _ Santa Maria,  _ I don’t think  _ I _ want any more surprises!”

“Mmm, I think you’re just hungry,” Blondie leans over to run his hand through his partner’s hair, as a cold burst of air makes the hairs of his neck stand on end--

“Well, that makes two of us.” 

That time it  _ is _ Angel’s melting baritone that cuts between their moment. Tuco lets out more of a surprised yell, causing Blondie to flinch into Angel’s snow covered shoulder. His lover catches his hand gently, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.

“You know, this doesn’t smell much like gelatin.”

“SURPRISE!” it’s Penny that chimes in, and Tuco with her a moment later.

“Yeah, uh, we thought you might like something a bit closer to...something you knew, at least,” Blondie’s tongue trips over the words,  _ damnit, should have let Tuco do the talking _ , but Angel’s lips are turning up into an achingly soft smile.

“From what I can see; it looks like you’ve managed most of my favourites. Oh, are those cannoli on the counter?”

“I said you liked those,” Susan points out from behind them.

“And you lied so neatly to me about Blondie’s dinner. I shouldn’t be surprised,” Angel shakes his head at himself, hanging up the hat Tuco knitted him. 

“This year kept those skills sharp,” she shrugs, and for a moment Angel’s face slides back to somber. Blondie squeezes at his hand, and he comes back to the present, smiling wide again and he shrugs off his jacket. 

“Tuco, you did all of this?  _ Estoy impresionado, _ ” he sweeps past-- Blondie thinks he understands the Spanish, but more importantly, he understands the fragile gratitude in Angel’s voice. 

“ _ Quería verte sonreír así. _ ”

“ _ Tu ternura me encanta, me siento realmente afortunado de tenerte en mi vida,”  _ Angel is rapt studying his partner now, Blondie’s heart in his throat.  _ God, they look so good looking at each other like that _ .

Penny clicks her tongue, “All right lovebirds, just cause we understand only half of what you’re saying doesn’t mean we don’t know it-- come on, let’s all get sitting!”

“You know, the Feast of Seven Fishes is traditionally a Christmas Eve meal,” Angel remarks conversationally to Blondie. Tuco freezes, nearly looking stricken.

“ _ Santa Maria _ , you’re right! We could have done it yesterday, I just--”

“Tuco,  _ querido, _ ” Angel cuts him off, "You think after all this I would prefer we observe traditions properly?  _ Potius sero quam numquam _ , no. I think this is quite possibly the best way for it to have turned out. A tradition for our own."

"Suits me fine, then. Only next year, you have to help us make it! Especially since I might not have Penny!”

  
“Oh, I’ll be here, any excuse to put the wings out, plus Susan was looking forward to it so much!” she nudges the group of them towards the table, and in fairness, even Blondie’s stomach is starting to growl. 

He pulls up the chair at the head of the table, before he even notices where he’s sat. His aunt insisted, one year he'd sit down, his wife on one side, kids all lined up along the table, and give them a Christmas dinner of their own. Of course, she was always present in this fantasy of hers, and his Uncle at the head of the table to lead the grace.  _ She never said, but I doubt she'd ever let me lead it.  _

Maybe another year.  _ Seems wrong to do it while Wallace is here. _

What he does sit down to is his partner on one side, and his lover on the other. A full table-- no children but -- friends.  _ Suppose that’s what I knew I’d get, when it came down to it. _ Penny winks at him, Susan watching her with undisguised adoration. He smiles back, out of the corner of his mouth. Squeezes both of his partner’s hands under the table. 

_ If I really think about it-- this is all the Christmas I’ll ever need.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Estoy impresionado_ \- I am impressed.
> 
>  _Quería verte sonreír así._ I like seeing you smile like that. Spanish. 
> 
> _Tu ternura me encanta, me siento realmente afortunado de tenerte en mi vida_ \- You amaze me, I'm so lucky to have you in my life. Spanish. 
> 
> _Potius sero quam numquam_ \- Better late than never. Latin.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's a wrap! Hope that sweetened your Christmas season <3
> 
> As always, comments, thoughts, super welcome! And we hope you have a cheery holiday season!
> 
> <3 <3


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